


Barbie Couldn't Shoot Like Me

by Self_san



Series: Barbies, Breasts, and Boys [1]
Category: A-Team (2010)
Genre: AU, Epic, Gender Related, I Don't Even Know, Multi, Not Ordered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:50:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She could kick anyone's ass. Just try her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barbie Couldn't Shoot Like Me

Temperance always wanted to be a doctor. 

Growing up, when the annual checkups came around at St. Mary’s, Tempy would always wait, squirming and eager, for her turn. 

The Sisters would laugh, pat her head, praise her enthusiasm. 

Tempy didn’t even mind the shots, so long as she could watch the doctor peel them out of their plastic homes, ready them for use. The nurses all loved her--she never cried, never screamed. She just sat there, watching. 

(Now, Face doesn’t wonder if they weren’t just relieved that they didn’t have to hold her down.)

They would even answer her questions when she asked! And boy, did she have a lot of them. 

Afterwards, Tempy would go back to wait with the Sisters, sucking on her lollypop and calm, satiated from all of the answers she had gotten. Then, she would wait for the next time, more questions gathering in her head, burning in her mind. 

*

Temperance’s nighttime stories are of little girls getting raped in dark rooms, their mothers drunk or drugged or dead--always told by the older, more worldly girls that sometimes come into the Church’s care. 

They whisper about it in hushed voices, their eyes dull, their faces lax, their hands slow. 

Later, she learns that this is what defeat looks like and she swears, swears to God, that she will never be like them.

Never. She’s going to be a doctor, and doctors can’t be weak. 

So, when Tommy Milton pushes her into the corner around the back of the yard, where no one can see, and tears her hose and rips her underwear, struggling to get it off of her, she bites and hisses and screams. 

No one comes. 

When it’s over, and her cheek is swollen from Tommy’s large fist and the spot between her legs hurts and burns, she stands up. Stiff, she straightens her braids and tucks her shirt back in. 

Tommy is gone, and Temperance is alone. 

She is silent as she walks back to the home, and only cries later that night, alone in the bathroom, refusing to let anyone see her so weak, wishing she weren’t crying at all.

What is she crying for anyway? Temperance scrubs her cheeks. It’s over, it’s done, and nothing can ever change that. 

Temperance takes a big breath, holding it in until it hurts, until it drowns out the want to scream, scream so loud that the whole of Los Angeles will hear and know that she lost something important--that something was stolen from her that she can never get back. That she wants back.

She tucks the urge inside, next to the numb, chilly rage that is burning in her bones. Carefully, she washes her hands, just like the doctors do, and starts to clean herself up. Starring down at her skinned and bruised knees, the dry line of blood running down her skinny thigh, Temperance ignores the water filling up her gaze. It won’t help anything now.

No, not now. Now all Temperance has is rage and revenge and the silent promise to herself:

Tommy Milton will pay. 

*

When Temperance, still not Face, is 16 she sits, shivering, in a clinic waiting room. 

She’s going to hell.

Arms wrapped around her stomach, she tries to still her trembling hands, tucking them under her arms, shifting in her seat. 

The walls are a pale, icy blue. 

She’s going to hell. 

Face-Temperance is dressed in clothes she borrowed from a friend at school--a long skirt and a t-shirt, a thin zippered jacket. Her nails are bitten to the quick and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. The Sisters think she’s at study-group for math, helping other children. 

But she’s not. She lied. 

And now she’s sitting, alone, waiting for the doctor to call her into the room. 

Temperance imagines she can feel the bumpbumpbump of the baby growing in her stomach, but knows that it’s probably too early for that. 

Father Patrick would--Temperance tears the thought from her mind with bloody fingers, flinching away from it. Father Patrick, Temperance scoffs at the title, doesn’t get any more room in her head. Not now. Not after she trusted him, liked him, confided in him her dreams and her wants and her everything, and he did this. 

Tommy Milton? She could make his life a living hell, make him regret with everything that he had that he ever touched Temperance Anne Peck. Ever even thought about her. 

But Father Patrick? The Golden Boy of Temperance’s poor neighborhood? The savior of the orphanage and the local face of the Church? She can’t do shit to him. 

That makes her burn. 

It’s not too late for that yet. 

The desk clerk calls for Jane Simions and Temperance goes on frozen feet that lead her through the door into a sterile room of white and pale blue. She had picked a free clinic on the opposite side of L.A. from where she lived, chosen it for its high ratings and the fact that no one she saw today would ever journey to her side of town, wouldn’t know who Temperance Peck was--brilliant girl, bright, bright girl, she wants to be a doctor you know, and she could do it, she could, she was so, so smart. 

Sitting quietly, the paper covering the bed crinkles beneath her skirt. 

The questions start. 

No, she doesn’t have anyone here with her today. 

Yes, she’s over 18. 

Yes, she’s sure she wants to do this. 

Lie. She isn’t sure, doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do.

The nurse is nice, holds her hand. 

Temperance closes her eyes, waits for it all to pass, her breath drowning out the whirl of the machines and her fingernails in her free hand biting into her palm.

She’s going to hell.

After, she takes what’s left of the tiny, malformed human being with her in an ice-cream tub she brought. She may not have wanted the thing, did she?did she?she doesn’t knowdoes’tknowdoesn’tknow but she doesn’t want it to end up in a bottle of shampoo, either. 

She buries it in the park, beneath a large tree, and says a prayer for it’s soul. Wipes off her dirt and bloodstained hands, changes back into her uniform. Goes back to St. Mary’s.

She’s beyond salvation now. 

*

Temperance graduates a year early, workingworkingworking on getting out, getting away. She’s seventeen, and the Sisters could only have helped her for another year, anyway. 

Temperance holds her Stanford Acceptance letter in her hand. She’s getting out. She’s getting away. 

And she is never coming back. 

But first, she has to find a way to pay for it. 

*

Temperance grits her teeth, her hands tightening unnoticed in her pockets. Never let the jackals catch the scent of anger or fear. 

Her white coat is clean and feels so, so right on her shoulders. Even the cat calls behind her can’t take away the feeling of elation she has. 

Sure, she’s never getting out of the Army (her debt is too high) but she’s a doctor! She’s going to be helping people, people who need her. That feeling trumps everything. Every misogynistic drill sergeant, every creeping hand aiming for her ass, every joke about a Playboy Bunny being brought in special. 

This. This is what she has been working for for so long. This is her dream. 

And it’s on her shoulders. Her’s. And the whole world can see it. 

*

Temperance doesn’t know when she became Face. Faceman. The go-to gal. 

It was probably somewhere after her graduation to a MP and before her shipment to Iraq. 

Face doesn’t care--it fits, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to hear than the long, enunciated Temperance that the others might have called during a firefight or a surgery. 

And so Temperance is wiped away, buried in the dirt and sand and blood of a hostile nation. And Face is all who remains. 

She likes it that way. 

(It’s certainly fitting, after all.)

*

Face meets Col. Hannibal Smith on a routine mission that goes FURBA faster than she can blink. 

Actually, to think about it, this was pretty much how the rest of their relationship would go.

*

Face cursed, spitting sand and blood from where her teeth had bitten into her cheek. Carefully, she peered around the wall they were covered by, her eyes tracking hostile movement. 

An older man groaned softly behind her, shifting in his sandy bed. 

Edging slowly away from the crack in the stone, Face knelt by the man, holding him still. His eyes blinked open, and they were a bright, icy blue. 

Face smiled her best smile. 

“Hello, solider!” she said sunnily, one hand opening a roll of bandages. “How goes the day?” she asked. 

She peeled open a pad of gauze with her teeth, missing how he blinked in confusion. 

“Well, it was going good right up until a few minutes ago,” the man grunted, letting her help him sit up, lean back against a fallen piece of wall. 

Face laughed. “I know what you mean.”

She had already examined his leg, and said a silent thanks that the bulled had gone clean through, front to back out of his thigh. It was one of those lucky shots, on the outside, away from any arteries or major veins. 

Face pushed his leg up, bending it, pressing a square of cotton weave to the front, muttering an absent, “hold this.”

She pressed her own to the back when he complied, then went to wrapping it with the bandages, tightly working to tourniquet the wound. 

The man didn’t make a sound beside a low hiss when she gave the first, testing tug. 

Face tied it off with quick fingers, then handed him his gun. 

“Do you think you can move if I help you?” she asked, already shouldering her own rifle. 

She met his eyes, and he gave a shallow nod. He was pale from blood loss. 

Later, after the truly astounding save involving her helmet, a bottle of peroxide, and a magazine half-full of armor piercing rounds, Face sat in the shade of the medical tent, taking small sips from a bottle of water. Waiting. 

Her solider tried limping out when it got dark, just like she thought he would. 

“And where do you thick your going?” she called out quietly, forcing herself to her feet as the lean figure froze, halfway out of the tent. 

“Just taking a stroll, it’s a lovely night, is it not?” he asked smoothly, trying to cover. 

Face snorted a laugh, coming up and offering her shoulder for him to lean on. He took it, slumping more than half of his weight onto her. 

Face bore it without remark, shuffling them towards the abandoned mess hall. 

“Yeah, sure it is old man,” she said laughingly. “Let’s get something in you before you puke up all those lovely, expensive meds, huh?” 

He made no comment, already starting to list forward as they went. 

There, she helped lower him to a seat and went to get him an MRE and a bar of chocolate, a bottle of water and a container of ketchup. She placed it before him with a, “Wa-la!” and then sat to drink another water herself. 

She was never hungry after a mission; she could only eat in the morning. (Or risk her latent adrenaline forcing her to throw it up.)

Face watched as he slowly ate, his silver head bowed low over his plate. 

When he had pushed his tray away and opened his bar of chocolate, she said, “Face.”

He looked up at her in confusion, a hand coming up to wipe at his own face, and she clarified with a smile, “Lt. Temperance Peck. MP. But most call me Face.”

He blinked, and held out his hand. “Col. John Smith, but most call me Hannibal.”

Informally, they shook. 

And then she carried him back to the medical tent--he passed out halfway there. 

*

“Dammit Face! I told you not to take on Tuco alone!” Hannibal growled from the front seat. 

Behind him, Face scowled, soaked in gasoline and trying to find a shirt. 

She found a powder blue quarter sleeve and pulled it over her head--thankfully, it hung on her like a short dress--and leaned forward. 

“I didn’t mean to!” she shot back, “And it was either that, our you would have found me in pieces floating in the Rio Grande, Tuco’s dismembered dick shoved down my throat.”

Hannibal was silent at that, and she looked over at their driver, a mountain of a black man whose shirt she was wearing. 

She took in the tattoos, the muscles, and the haircut, and whistled softly. “You look like you got a real bad attitude,” she said, mostly to herself.

At that, the man scowled. 

“What?!” he yelled. “Did I shoot up your van? Am I wearing your favorite shirt?” 

Face touched the soft, worn cotton of the sleeve. “This is your favorite shirt?” she asked, surprised. 

“Yeah, Barbie, that’s my favorite shirt,” he grit out. 

At that, Face noticed the poorly done tourniqute on his upper arm. “Did you get shot for me too?” she asked, reaching out and lifting up the bandana, examining the wound.

The man let her. 

“And carjacked,” he said tiredly, looking out the windshield. 

Face barked a laugh. “And he still got you to drive?” she asked absently, pushing at the graze’s clean edges. It wouldn’t take much to stitch it up. She probably could have done it while he was driving, if she had her bag. 

Which she didn’t. Tuco had it. And it was probably on fire by now, along with her heels and boots and underwear. 

The man looked over, and she glanced up to meet his eyes, realizing the dark stain on his arm was a tattoo. An Army Ranger Tattoo, to be precise. 

“Peck,” she introduced, sitting back. She couldn’t do anything for him here. 

“Baracus.”

Face frowned and touched her short hair--it always got lighter out in the sun, she knew, and she had been in Mexico for weeks, but Barbie? Not even Theresa?

Whatever. Clearly he hadn’t grown up with Barbie and friends.

Boys.

*

“Hey, doc, can you spare a minute for an injured vet?” Face asked, stopping the doctor on his way to the door. The heat of the day clung to her tan skin, flushing her cheeks a red under all the dust and dirt that caked them. The doctor’s dark eyes widened as he looked at her sweaty, disheveled figure before nodding. 

Face beamed in thanks, carefully touching his elbow to lead him towards Bosco. She pushed the short hairs around her face back with a spare hand, talking as she walked. 

“Okay, so, I don’t really need you to work on him, per-say, but I do need you to watch me work on him and then sign off on the paperwork later.” They stopped, pressed to the wall as a stretcher was squeezed through the narrow hallway. She looked up at him, her arm caught under his. 

“I’m really sorry for taking up your time, doc, but I’ll get chewed out if I don’t take the time for procedure,” she apologized as they walked down the hall and into the room where the large black man sat, his frown pensive. 

The tall brunette shrugged. “No problem,” he said, his Texas accent bleeding into his words. 

“Hey, man! Found a doctor!” Face gestured behind herself as she walked to the sink in the corner. 

“Say, what happened here?” the doctor asked, leaning over to look at the nasty looking wound decorating the other man’s arm. 

“Oh, just a bullet graze,” Face called back, wiping off her clean hands and grabbing a pair of gloves to pull on. The smell of gasoline was making her giddy--high off the noxious fumes. 

“Wait, why you getting cleaned up for?” Bosco asked, his eyes wide as she grabbed the sewing tray off of the sink counter. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

“To stitch you up.” 

Her eye were flat, daring him to say anything to contradict her. Bosco was familiar with the look, though it was shocking to see it come from a skinny little white girl and not his larger-than-life mama. 

“You ain’t no doctor!” he protested weakly, watching as she opened the sealed package. He turned to the doctor standing nearby, but the fool seemed content just to watch Peck work. 

Face smiled, and it wasn’t a very pretty look. It was fake and hard and everything that her gender had made her.

“Yes, actually, I am.”

Bosco swallowed. 

Face finally looked at him, this time her eyes kinder. 

“I stitch up Hannibal all the time. Don’t worry, Bosco, I’ll leave you with nary a scar!” she promised him. 

Face took a second to inspect the wound before giving it a saline wash and rubbing an alcohol patch on a piece of clean skin above it. She injected the local anesthetic, absently saying, “Just a pinch,” out of habit as the hypodermic syringe bit through skin. Bosco said nothing, just sitting as still as possible as Face set the now empty injector aside to be thrown away and picked up the curved needle to sew his graze shut. 

He watched her move and found that she was full of professional grace, never wasting a movement or putting out more effort than was strictly necessary. It was a good strategy, Bosco admitted, and it would be even more at place in a high-risk, adrenaline-pumping situation.

The doctor spoke up, coming near Face’s back. She tensed minutely and he shifted to the side so as not to block her range of movement. 

“Looks like it almost hit the old Ranger tat,” he said, stressing the word ‘Ranger.’

Face, done with her work, gave the wound a wipe down and went to get a bandage. She dumped the gloves, syringe, and other tools she had used into the glaring red bag proclaiming Hazmat and went to wash her hands again. 

She didn’t hear what was said next. 

“Would you think I was crazy if I told you I had one like that?” the doctor asked Bosco, leaning in close to half-whisper. It gave Bosco a clear view into his dark eyes, showing the ballooned pupils. 

“There’s somethin’ wrong with your eyes,” Bosco said, his shoulders tensing ever so slowly as the man didn’t step away. 

“Looks like she did you up good, soldier!” the doctor crowed cheerfully, stepping away as Face walked back with a patch of gauze and a roll of tape. 

“Yo, man,-” Bosco said, moving to stand. 

“Captain Murdock?” a nurse stuck her head inside the door, her eyes wide at the man in a doctor’s outfit. 

“Not now nurse! Not while I’m operating,” Murdock said loudly, causing Face’s eyes to widen. She hardly paid attention to the wrap she slapped on Bosco’s arm and adhered with a few pieces of tape, busy listening in. 

“What are you doing off the ward?!” the nurse cried, shocked. 

“Ward?” Face asked, feeling dread fill her stomach. 

“Is that gas? I smell gas? Was that you?” Murdock started to babble, looking around the room wildly. 

“This man is a patient here!” the nurse told the bewildered Face, watching as her face turned white, then lax with apparent relief. 

“Thank God-” Face groaned, covering her eyes with a hand. 

“Your arm’s on fire!” Bosco exclaimed as he stood, the side-tray flying sideways with a noisy clatter. 

Face’s eyes blinked open, wondering- 

“What, holy-!!!” she screamed, batting at her alight arm. She side-scrambled away from Murdock, getting out of the line of fire that he was waving around. 

“I’ll kill you, fool!” Bosco roared and charged, grabbing onto Murdock’s collar and plowing them out into the hall. 

“Capt-!” the nurse cried, being pushed back by the towering black man. 

“Baracus, don-” Face yelled, running after them. Bosco had the man dangling, his toes barely brushing the tiled floor. Face raced, grabbing onto his uninjured arm. Ways of putting him down raced through her mind even as she frantically talked. Fist to heart. Fingers to neck. Knee to groin. 

“Hey, hey! Let him go, let him go! Calm down, it’s okay! No harm done, no harm done, man!” she told him, watching as Murdock’s face went red from lack of oxygen. 

Bosco shook him.

“This fool lit you on fire!”

“It’s okay, seriously!” Face reassured him, tugging on his arm one last time. Fully prepared to drop him if she had to, she pulled back her fist- Bosco let go of the man, allowing her pull him away. Murdock stumbled into the waiting Hannibal, gasping for air. 

“I see you’ve all met our pilot.” Hannibal’s deep voice echoed through the uproarious noise. Face relaxed and took a deep breath. If he was here, it couldn’t be- Her mind caught up with his words and she blanched. 

“Pilot? I ain’t getting in no plane with that crazy fool!” Bosco exclaimed loudly, taking a step forward. 

“Hannibal, what?! Is he one of your projects?!” Face shouted, watching as Hannibal clapped the other man on the shoulders. 

“I’m a real soldier! I’m a Ranger, baby!” Murdock cried out in defiance to B.A.’s words. 

“I’m worried!” Face blatantly admitted, feeling as though she was about to laugh. Or cry. 

“I’m a Ranger, sir,” he told Hannibal, his face solemn. Hannibal nodded, like it was the most serious thing he had ever heard spoken aloud. 

“Look at me son.” Murdock did, but Face could see the small twitches that wracked his tall frame. He was coming off of something, she knew. Probably had been tonguing his meds for days now. “You’ve been discharged into our care and reinstated,” her commanding officer told the man, stilling his anxious movements with his hands. 

Murdock’s face lit up as he threw a hasty salute, breaking away from Hannibal’s hands where they rested on his shoulders.

“Thank you, sir!”

Hannibal’s lips twitched, unnoticed by all but Murdock. 

“Let’s get a move on, then.”

*

Truth be told, Face was having a hard time keeping from laughing. It had to be one of the most absurd things she had ever seen. 

“You spin me right ‘round, baby, right ‘round-”

Oh yeah, she had a feeling about this one. 

*

Face hated psychologists. 

They made her itch, even though she knew that they couldn’t get in without her allowing it. But the fact that they knew she knew was what really made her squirm. 

“So, what do you think?” the man asked her, and she could hear him lean back in his chair. Over the phone, he was even more annoying, if possible. She checked her nails, fighting the urge to whoop for joy at the fact that she wouldn’t have to see him for a long long time. Yay Missions-that-Kept-Her-Off-the-East-Coast!

But it wasn’t her that was the object of their conversation. Her new teammate, however…

“I think that he doesn’t need more than half of these meds you’ve got him on,” she told him. The squeaking of the chair stopped and his voice turned less-than jovial. 

“Now, I know that you haven’t had long to observe him, Lt, but I assure you-” 

She snorted, and could practically see him drawing himself up, insulted.

“Now look here-” he started, his voice condescending. 

With her. 

Face’s patience reached the end of the rope, hours of pouring over the notes and records of her new teammate flashing through her eyes as she stood ever so slowly from her seat. 

“No, you look here. I’ve seen enough to know that a mild tranquilizer at times helps but the regime you’ve got him on…he’s addicted to three of these meds that don’t even do anything for him.” Ice coated every phrase. 

The doctor on the other end of the line huffed.   
“I refuse to allow you to tell me what I do and do not-”

“Really?” she asked sweetly, her claws unsheathing and her smile blooming as he walked into her trap. “He was reinstated into my care. I am his primary physician now.” The words, ‘Not you.’ were clearly heard in her pause. “And I refuse to allow you to tell me what he will and will not be forced on!” There was a silence full of shock and incredulity. Face bared her teeth in a parody of a smile, her eyes deadly as she looked down at the file marked ‘Murdock, H.M.’. “Thank you for your time, sir. Have a pleasant day.” Their conversation ended with a prompt click. 

Let him stew it that.

*

“Hey, Murdock!” Face called out, her voice echoing in the large hanger. The heat trapped in the metal dome was stifling, but she knew that this was the only place Murdock would be. 

Ever since his release he had ensconced himself among the planes, relearning them all with his hands. 

The silence that greeted her wasn’t unusual. He was silent when he worked, his mind too caught up to take him off on wild tangents. His focus on the aircrafts was stunning to behold, truly. 

In the back, she heard the clang of metal on concrete and started walking. 

Soon enough, she spotted the lengthy legs sticking out from under the classic two-seater that sat disassembled in a mess. And she was sure Murdock would know just where everything was, too, despite the seeming chaos. It was just the way he seemed to work. 

“Hey,” she announced herself as she got closer. 

The pilot cursed, jerking violently. Face winced, hearing his head smack part of the half-built undercarriage. Rolling out slowly with his feet, he clutched his forehead with a hand. Murdock sat up, his eyes still closed tight as he grit his teeth.

She purposefully shuffled her feet as she stepped forward, squatting down to be at his level. She touched his wrist. He tensed, slow to relax as she peered at his head. She made herself ignore it and he slowly let his shoulders slump. 

There was a small nick where his skin had caught metal. Huffing, Face leaned back, grabbing her dog-tags from inside her shirt. Attached to the chain was a thin container, only a hairsbreadth longer than one of her tags, and she thumbed out a band-aid from it before letting the metal fall to hang between her breasts. 

Grabbing the bottom of her shirt, she pulled it up to wipe away the blood from the grease spotted skin before she peeled open the paper of the bandage and placed it over the nick, smoothing the sticky wings out. 

When she leaned back, Murdock was watching her. She wondered if she had really seen the half-speculative half-exhausted look in his eyes that disappeared in a blink of her eye. 

She smiled, pushing it from her mind as she saw the print on the band-aid. “Sorry to surprise you.” He shrugged, looking amused. 

“Was there something ya needed?” he asked as she stood and took a step back, giving him room. He ran a dirty hand through his shaggy hair, his eyes circled in blues and purples. Instead of laying back down to slide under, he sat, looking up at her with inquisitive, tired, eyes. 

“Yeah,” Face admitted, turning serious. “I need your drugs.”

Murdock frowned, standing up. 

“I haven’t gotten a chance to go fill them,” he said, walking over to the toolbox sitting open on a plastic table. His feet easily carried him over the disassembled, dirty plane parts that were scattered haphazardly over the floor and he plucked a bundle of folded papers from under some rusty bolts, handing it to her. Oil and dirt fingerprints covered it but she took it anyway, unfolding it to see a mass of prescription slips. She smiled, shaking her head. 

“Well, you did me a hell of a favor! Those techs were gonna be pissed at me for making them re-do all of these!” Face waved the papers as she flipped through them. The majority she shoved into her pocket, leaving only two- one a mild sedative and another a light anti-depressant. Both were reasonable doses, she figured. He could always break the second in half for a lesser daily dose if that’s what he wanted to do. 

“Here you go!” she handed him the two slips. His eyes were wide, wondering. She just smiled wider, clapping him on the shoulder as a bead of sweat ran down her temple. “And make sure you fill those tomorrow, okay? You look like hell.”

Looney-Tune band-aid and all.

*

Even after three years, Face is still surprised at how well they work together. 

*

“Bait. I’m always the bait. Why couldn’t we shove B.A. in a cocktail dress and use him for bait, huh?” Face muttered to herself, adjusting her breasts in the two-sizes-too-small dress. She gave herself a critical eye, taking in the flowing blonde wig, painted face, and skimpy dress. 

She huffed, glaring at the mirror. Barbie glared back. 

“I look ridiculous, Hannibal!” she hissed, knowing that they could hear her. Her fingers twitched for a gun. 

“You look fine. The target’s on it’s way to the back, get into position,” Hannibal commanded, sounding far too amused. 

She grit her teeth, put on her brightest smile, and walked out of the bathroom. 

*

“They shouldn’t have gone for you. It was- they shouldn’t have-” Hannibal’s words were halting, shocked into a quiet that she had never heard from him before. His hands were wet with the blood that seeped from her dress. 

“Fuck, Hannibal.” She let her head hit the floor, the dirty carpet of the hotel they were trapped in catching her short hair. The mission had started as smooth as it ever had- Hannibal was an amazing tactician. But even he couldn’t have accounted for the refugee that had recognized Face from her time in Somalia. Said refugee telling his boss? Well, that was when the shit had truly hit the fan. 

“B.A.’s on his way, Face,” Hannibal kept talking like he hadn’t heard her. He was leaning his whole weight into his hands, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His jaw was tight, the tendons in his neck thrown into stark relief by his tenseness. 

Face spared a moment to wonder where her wig had gotten to?

But the bullet was a sharp ache in her chest, her lung hot as blood leaked in to fill it up. She was drowning. And she knew it. 

Face tried to swallow and ended up choking on the coppery fluid as it came up, seeping from the corners of her mouth without her permission. When the small fit had passed and Hannibal still hadn’t acknowledged that she had said anything, Face resorted to grabbing one of his wrists, letting her blunt nails bite in to grab his attention. 

When his bright blue eyes met hers she started to talk. 

“Look, I need you to-”

“They shouldn’t have-” he cut in, looking away. 

“Dammit, listen to me!” she coughed, her voice rasping wetly. With a mental groan, she fought the urge to curl in on herself. Her chest was so tight and it hurt and Hannibal needed to listen to her. 

With her best commanding tone she started talking.

“Get a plastic bag and a roll of duck tape.”

He paused, eyes flickering to her wound, she held a trembling hand ready to replace his. He nodded, a fast move not bellying his age as he sprang to he feet and raced into the kitchen. 

She tried to press down as hard as she could to stop the bleeding, but her shaking arms and labored breaths were an annoyance that she couldn’t ignore. There came the sound of drawers being opened and rifled through, followed by a juicy curse that had her smirking. 

Then Hannibal returned, supplies in hand. Short of breath, she had him cut open her dress with a boot knife. It pooled, cool and wet, around her sides. In only a pair of nude pasties, underwear, and a garter belt, she started talking. 

“This is called inductive bandaging. You’re going to put,” she had to pause, take a sticky breath, “put the middle of the bag over the wound, then tape over everything except one corner. Ma-” she drew air through her teeth, groaning with the pain of her wound being pressed on heavily while she struggled to breath, “-ke sure all the air is out while you’re doing it.” By the end, her eyes had closed to half-mast and her ever breath was a wet, sticky sound in the silence of the room. 

With every beat of her heart the pain radiating from her side got sharper, sending bolts of gray and black fuzz racing across the inside of her eyes. 

Hannibal did what she asked with steady hands, his mouth pressed into a sharp, unforgiving line. Face blinked open an eye to check his progress and found it up to par. 

God, he was so…so beautiful when he worked.

“You’re doin’ great, boss,” a weak smile, her head falling back to thump impotently into the thin carpet. 

“Now what?” he asked, his low voice like hot gravel as he watched her face. 

“Prop up my feet, above-” a lengthier pause, her head turned to drool blood out of her steadily filling mouth, “above chest level,” she told him. He grabbed a couch cushion from the ratty piece of furniture pressed up against the side wall and did so. The movement sent a stab of livid agony up her chest and into her heart as the muscle was forced to pump harder to make the blood flow. Face choked on the surprised scream, her fingers griping the dirty floor. 

She labored to breath, wheezing. 

The adrenaline was wearing off. 

Face was so…so fucked. 

Black.

Choppy, screaming words echoed in her ears as she was jostled side to side. Her limbs couldn’t move. Something hard supported her back. She didn’t have the strength to fight, so sure that they had been found and captured. 

“We need- immediate medic- Now!” Hannibal? The sounds faded into the background of her spinning head…

But the blinding fluorescent lights burned her eyes. So familiar…a…hospital?

She floated, unfeeling, wondering how... She heard the wet sound of blood being drawn from her lung by suction and her stomach churned. 

“Chest- intubat- Clear!” 

The whirling scream of a defibrillator charging shattered her wonder. Her back arched off the bed, her limbs straining as electricity pumped through them. She seized, her head falling back as she twitched on the gurney. 

Through the haze, she could see Hannibal standing, his face red. So red. His graying hair was like a patch of snow against the backdrop of green tent and bright lights. She mouthed his name in panic, wondering how she hadn’t noticed he was injured and-

His eyes met hers and she felt something squeeze her hand. 

“Be- Okay?” he growled, taking a hesitant step forward. 

The whistling sound of the heart monitor stopping for the half-instant that he was close enough to touch-

“Charge- SR- Dropping!” the whirl of charging again, her eyes rolling back into the red of her skull. She reached for him, blind. 

His hand swallowed hers, their rough palms meshing like well-remembered friends. She thought she heard music, languid and slow, playing from the right… 

“Take- breaths-” she seized again, her heart shivering in its coat of fat and muscle, refusing to beat. 

And the air was stolen, sending her into the black again as the sickly sweet taste entered her throat and seeped into her soul.

What seemed like an instant later, all she heard was the high, wheezing gasps of someone who was about to pass out. It was like a panicked rabbit, waiting for it’s death. 

“What’s going on?!” Hannibal’s voice shouted, breaking through her confounded brain. Hadn’t she just been holding his hand? Where had he--?

“Face!” Murdock called out, cut off by B.A. There was a squeak of wheels and the heart monitor spiked loudly. 

“Shit, yo! What you fools do?!” Bosco growled, sounding like he was planning to hit first and ask more questions later. The sound of metal slapping metal. 

“Hannibal, she’s hyperventilating!” Murdock’s voice rose louder, the smell of oil and grease and Murdock coming closer. 

Oh, good, Face thought--he remembered that lesson. She had wondered if Toy Story hadn’t stolen it from him. 

She? Face wondered, trying to remember… Unknowingly, her hand curled, her fingers searching…

There was another crash and then Hannibal’s hands settling so lightly on her shoulders and his breath hot in her ear. Her first finger hooked into a side pocket of his fatigues, holding him weakly. 

There he was. 

“Face? Temperance, can you hear me? It’s Hannibal. You need to slow your breathing,” his voice was quiet, serious. It reminded her of death, but soft. Soft, gentle death. 

But Face’s mind was still whirling. Her? She was-?

“Sir, please clear-” a nurse, no doubt concerned over the state of…

“Shut up, fool!” B.A. shouted, sounding livid. Hurried footsteps retreating. 

“Shit, she’s not-” did Murdock just curse? Face was shocked. 

Then it all…stopped for an instant. 

And started again. 

This time she felt a shift in the thin mattress, the rustle of blankets as they were tucked closer around her, the hard line of body settling in gingerly beside her, a warm, heavy arm wrapped loosely over her shoulders. 

Shit, she was cold she realized. Shivering, she unabashedly wrapped her shaking hands around the arm and curled, able to feel the jerky breaths being torn from her chest now. 

She took as large a breath as she could, stuttering as she inhaled. She held it for the count of two before it hiccupped out and she had to start again. The arm held her, its twin rubbing small circles around the base of her spine and tapping anxiously on her hip. A blanket was pulled further up. 

Her nose felt like ice as she buried it into a prickly throat, her rough lips scraping skin as her teeth chattered. 

“Face, Face? It’s okay Face. Take the time you need. We’re right here.” Hannibal’s voice, his breath warm on her cheek as she battled to bring her body back under her control. His chest rumbled lowly under her hand.

She pressed her lips tight together, pulling him closer around her, like a living blanket. She worked to make his heart her heart and his breath her own. Failing. Failing. Failing. 

Why did it always seem like she failed? 

*

The first time it happened, all of them woke up. 

Nightmares, in their line of work, weren’t uncommon. 

And even for the most stable-minded of people, nightmares could deeply shake someone. 

Murdock hadn’t been what one could call stable-minded for a very long time. 

The buzz of insects filled the night air, their languid circuits familiar in the dark. In a tent four soldiers slept, their sweaty bodies comfortably cool in the chilly desert eve. Worn muscles stretched out, tired eyes resting fitfully, they slept unknowing of when they would get the chance again. 

That is, they were asleep until Face awoke with a snap, gun in hand and ready to react. Waiting as still as death for something to attack she jumped when the sound that had woken her up occurred again just feet away. 

It was a choked gasp full of fear and pain and she quickly thumbed her safety back on and tucked her gun back under her cot. She heard B.A. shift and the tell-tall whisper of Hannibal’s thumb rubbing over his lighter. They were awake, and they had heard what she had. 

She paused, wondering if they were going to do something. They didn’t and Face winced in sympathy when Murdock’s breathing picked up. 

“Murdock?” she had spoke lowly so that the sound of her voice wouldn’t carry. 

The pilot jerked awake, sitting straight up with a ragged breath that filled the tent and raised the hair on the back of Face’s neck. 

“Murdock, hey man,” she continued, pitching her voice to make it softer. She didn’t ask if he was okay. 

“Hmmm?” Murdock asked, almost squeaking from going so high out of surprise. 

The tent was silent, the only sound coming from the bugs buzzing away and the quiet clinkclinkclink of dog tags sliding around on their chain. 

“…I, uh…you were…snoring?” Face fumbled for her words, trying and failing to ignore the pink elephant in the room. The silence got awkward, and she could almost imagine the pilot’s tanned face going white. 

She cringed. 

Murdock chortled breathlessly. 

“Sorry guys.” Muffled, the words still filled the air. 

“No problem,” Hannibal’s voice was solemn and low.

B.A. snorted. 

“Yeah, fool, happens to the best of us.” There came the sound of shifting sheets as he hunkered back down, drawing his blanket up over his shoulders. They all heard his gun’s safety as it clicked back on.

Suddenly Face couldn’t help but think of what the other girls in middle school had described as a slumber-party. They were always talking about how they had had to keep their voices low so as not to wake so-and-so’s parents while they talked about boys and were generally cruel to each other. At the time, Face had been jealous. The Sisters had a strict policy about lights out that none of the orphans had dared to break. 

And now, in the middle of the night in the ass-crack of Afghanistan, their voices pitched low so as not to stir the other men in the tent next to theirs, Face chuckled. 

“Who’re we talking about again?” she teased, laughing quietly when B.A. made a noise of outrage at the back of his throat.

There was the click of a lighter being closed and Face could feel Hannibal’s amused gaze. Murdock puffed a breath of air through his nose in lieu of a laugh. 

Face smiled as she lay back down, her eyes growing heavy as she stared at the top of the tent. 

Boys. 

*

Groaning in relief, Face tilted her face to the sun. 

Damn, it felt good to just sit there, she mused, sinking further into her lawn chair. The kiddy-pool’s tepid water lapped softly around her ankles, her board-shorts slipping further down her slim hips as she wriggled into a comfortable position. The IV pole jingled faintly as she moved, rocking in the dusty ground. 

Murdock muttered behind her, working to fire up the grill. 

“Beer?” Murdock asked. 

“Yeah, sure,” Face muttered, slumping down further. 

The icy drink pressed to her neck and she leaned into it, reaching up a hand to grab it as Murdock pulled away. It felt good on her hot skin, condensation running with the sweat down her neck and dripping into her sports bra.

Face fumbled with the catch, her taped fingers making her clumsy. The can opened with a hiss of compressed air and she took a sip, making a face at the taste. 

Finding it in herself to move was getting harder and harder the longer Face sat but when the tight scab under her bandaged side itched she leaned forward, carefully touching the bandage. It was damp with drying blood and she frowned. She had just had it changed, dammit, she sank back into her seat, glaring at nothing from behind her sunglasses. 

The thick rubber slipped down her nose, sweat beading her temples and flushing her cheeks as she rubbing her fingers over the rough arm of her chair to keep from scratching. The tube in her arm pulled from under the patch of tape and she had to close her eyes to consciously stop herself from reaching down and jerking it out. 

“Face, ya want ‘em napalmed or nuked?” Murdock asked, interrupting her thoughts as his spasmodic whistling came to a stop. Face tilted her head back, smirking as she thought about the pilot behind her in his ‘Kiss the Cook’ half-apron and Hawaii-print shirt. 

“Nuke it!” she called back, crackling. 

Murdock made a noise of acknowledgement at the back of his throat, cracking open a shotgun to pull a bullet out. He popped off the metal top with his teeth, leaning down to sprinkle the gunpowder over Face’s steak. 

“Murdock, burn the hell out of it like it was damned,” Bosco said as he turned around, watching the plum of mountainous smoke rise from the grill.

“Burn the whole place down, buddy,” Face joked, spreading her arms out over the armrests to let her fingers trail in the dirt.   
“You want Secret Sauce?” Murdock asked. 

“No! No, no, no, no, none of that anti-freeze,” Face said seriously, almost shooting out of her seat. 

“The ‘Secret’ out; you crazy, everybody know,” Bosco chimed in with a gruff laugh. 

“Nobody can do an anti-freeze marinade like you can, Murdock, but I got a little Bells Palsy last time I ate that.” Face’s confession was met with an amused snort from the pilot.

“It’s only partial paralysis. C’mon, take it like a man,” he goaded her, sprinkling the anti-freeze lightly over the grate. 

Face laughed at the taunt. 

“Yeah, I don’t think you want me in the field partially paralyzed, bud,” she remarked candidly.

“Visitors,” Murdock sang quietly just as Face felt the shadow fall onto her warm bare legs. And something…

Through long practice, Face’s muscles didn’t tense. 

The soft smell of dove soap and sunflower perfume tickled her nose, bringing back memories of silky, shaven skin rubbing languidly against her own and velvety hair trailing through her calloused fingers. 

Clarissa.

*

Clarissa is an indulgence that Face can hardly afford. 

Clarissa is pretty and soft and when she smiles, the whole room lights up around her, even with her hair pulled back in a sever bun. Face longs to see her undone, caramel colored hair spread out on cool sheets, skin heated, so, so female. 

Face can hardly stand it, panting after her for weeks until, finally, she just can’t take it anymore. 

“So, what do you say to a girl’s day out?” she finds herself asking, leaning against the opening of Clarissa’s cubical. 

The other woman looks up, her blue eyes as bright as the sky, a graceful eyebrow raised. Face wants to lick the look off of her lips.

Face feels like she’s being pretty smooth, actually. Normally, close female relationships are discouraged--but as two of the only women on base…opportunities open up. 

Such as a spa day, suspicion free. 

Face smiles her biggest grin, the one that the Sister’s had said could kill a saint, and folded her arms under her small breasts. (Those puppies needed all the help they could get, after all.)

“Come on,” she wheedled, leaning in, “You know you want to.”

Clarissa rolled her eyes, relaxing back into her seat. 

“Why should I?” she asks, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her eyes that Face would have missed, had she not been a woman who had spent the last eight years in the military, learning those looks herself. 

Face made her look serious. “Because I know of a place that does and absolutely divine lime rinse and milk bath.”

Clarissa’s face brightens, and Face thinks, score.

*

Face only sleeps with women. 

This is for a reason.

*

Murdock coughs, the sound wrenching out of his chest, over the comms. 

Face frowns from the back of the helicopter, thinking, wet, chest infection (?), eight-week antibiotics, damn. 

The pilot mutters an apology, clearing his throat, wincing. 

When they land, the unconscious B.A. hauled out and to the barracks, Face finds Murdock bent in the corner, taking slow, deep breathes. 

The sounds are rasping, low, thick with mucus. Face clears her own throat, wincing in sympathy as Murdock snaps up, his eyes dark and wild. 

He sees her and relaxes, slumping against the wall. 

He gives her a look from under his hat, a, ‘you caught me,’ look that Face thinks must be typical of all army-men for how often her team gives her it. 

She smiles, and pulls her stethoscope out of a pant pocket. 

Murdock rolls his eyes. They are ringed with bags, the scar under the right one an angry red from the pale of his face. 

“Here, or there, my good man?” Face gives it her best British accent, trying to make him smile. 

He musters up a crooked grin, jerking his head back out to the hanger. 

Face motions him on, her bag thumping against her back as she follows him. If she didn’t know that the hanger was heated, she never would have agreed, but, well, if he was comfortable there…

She had certainly worked in worse. 

The brisk chill in the air had Murdock covering his mouth and nose with a hand, the icy breeze no doubt hurting like a bitch as it went down. Face felt slightly guilty for letting his taller, lanky frame block the worst of the wind as they went, ducking into the large metal tube that serviced as home for the aircrafts on base.

There, among the metal wings and bright, burning florescent lights, Murdock sat on a pile of scraps. Face takes a second to breath on the head of her stethoscope, rubbing it in her chilly hands. 

“Warning, room temperature hands,” she warns, reaching back and sliding her hand up his shirt, pressing the instrument to his hot skin. He still jerks, hissing; “Cold,” through clenched teeth when she stops, waiting for him to say something. 

After that, Face measures his breath, takes his pulse, has him cough. 

She was right--chest infection.

“You feel like shit, don’t you?” she asked, tucking her steth back into her cargo pants and pulling Murdock’s shirt back down. 

The pilot’s shoulders are slumped, his hat in his hands. 

He looks Miserable. 

Face, deciding to take pity on him, ushers him off to bed, making sure he’s wrapped up in her blanket as well as his on his cot, his gun and coat and hat nearby. She goes, fills up the script she wrote him, and comes back, puts it next to a cup of cool water on the floor. Sneaks out of the men’s barracks--he’ll get it when he wakes up. 

She soundly ignores the whispers of the door guards as she walks past, her head held high.

Pilot’s whore, her ass. 

They can all suck her metaphorical dick. 

And choke on it. 

She can kick anyone’s ass. Just try her.


End file.
